Judith. 
     No:  nor I.
That corpse was not his death.  He is alive,
And will be till there is no more a world
Filled with his hidden hunger, waiting for souls
That ford the monstrous waters of the world. 
Alive in you is Holofernes now,
But fed and rejoicing; I have filled your hunger. 
Yea, and alive in me:  my spirit hath been
Enjoyed by the lust of the world, and I am changed
Vilely by the vile thing that clutcht on me,
Like sulphurous smoke eating into silver. 
Your song is all of this, this your rejoicing;
You have good right to circle me with song! 
You are the world, and you have fed on me.

A Citizen.  We are the world; yes, but the world for ever Honouring thee.

Judith. 
     How am I honoured so,
If I no honour have for the world, but rather
Hold it an odious and traitorous thing,
That means no honour but to those whose spirits
Have yielded to its ancient lechery?—­
Defiled, defiled!

A Citizen. 
     Thou wert moved by our grief: 
Was that a vile thing?

Judith. 
     That was the cunning world. 
It moved me by your grief to give myself
Into the pleasure of its ravenous love.

A Citizen. 
Judith, if thy hot spirit beareth still
Indignant suffering of villainy,
Think, that thou hast no wrong from it.  Such things
Are in themselves dead, and have only life
From what lives round them.  And around thee glory
Lives and will force its splendour on the harm
Thy purity endured, making it shine
Like diamond in sunlight, as before
Unviolated it could not.

Judith. 
     Ay, to you
I doubt not I seem admirable now,
Worthy of being sung in loudest praise;
But to myself how seem I?

A Citizen. 
     Surely as one
Whose charity went down the stairs of hell,
And barter’d with the fiends thy sacredest
For our deliverance.

Judith. 
     And that you praise!—­
I was a virgin spirit.  Whence I come
I know not, and I care not whither I go. 
One fearful knowledge holds me:  that I am
A spirit walking dangerously here. 
For the world covets me.  I am alone,
And made of something which the world has not,
Unless its substance can devour my spirit. 
And it hath devoured me!  In Holofernes
It seized me, fed on me; and then gibed on me,
With show of his death scoffing at my rage,—­
His death!—­He lay there, drunken, glutted with me,
And his bare falchion hung beside the bed,—­
Look on it, and look on the blood I made
Go pouring thunder of pleasure through his brain!—­
And like a mad thing hitting at the madness
Thronging upon it in a grinning rout,
I my defilement smote, that Holofernes. 
But does a maniac kill the frenzy in him,
When with his fists he beats the clambering fiends